


I came here to get some peace

by tryalittlejoytomorrow



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon Universe, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Smut, smut with feelz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 22:18:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5887438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryalittlejoytomorrow/pseuds/tryalittlejoytomorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's the one who told her it wasn't easy being in charge and he wishes he'd done more to make sure she never had to know just how hard it is. </p>
<p>After weeks of searching, Bellamy finally finds Clarke. Nothing goes as expected - it gets better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I came here to get some peace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alienor_woods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienor_woods/gifts).



> This is an early birthday present for the ever amazing @alienor_woods.
> 
> Title from Bastille's "Skulls", which will always be my ultimate Bellarke song. Hope you enjoy!

"Let him go!"

The voice is firm, commanding, and leaves no room for argument; nothing like the small, torn whimper of his name she'd let out the last time he saw her, or the desperate pleas for his life that still haunt his every night. He's heard her cry out over and over again in his nightmares more times than he can admit without Monty or Kane thinking he's losing it - but she _doesn't_ sound scared anymore.

Bellamy painfully lifts his head up, and here she is, almost surreal, regal as she stands tall - black paint around her eyes, her hair shaped into two elaborated braids curled around her ears, and a long cloak dress that resembles Lexa's but that makes her look twice as imposing as he remembers from her rebel princess days. As soon as she speaks, the two large men who were restraining him let go of him with a bow of their heads to her and a quiet murmur that sounds a lot like _yes, Heda_.

But it can't be. _She_ _can't be_ , can she? Lexa's alive, he's followed her here. He must have heard wrong - Octavia's the one who gets all the nuances - because there's just no way. _No way_.

Clarke barks another order and the men retreat, the heavy doors locking shut behind them. For a couple of seconds Bellamy just stares at her, lost, stunned; she's alive and well when he's almost managed to force himself to move on, to accept that he's _lost_ her, and Clarke doesn't look like herself but does it matter, really? It doesn't. She's here and she's alive and -

"Bellamy," she speaks his name then, earnest and a little strangled, as she takes a step towards him, and another, and Bellamy still feels out of it but when she throws her arms at him and squeezes his own wrap around her and hold her tight, impossibly tight, always tighter as she murmurs his name again and again against his neck. "God, I - I heard about the attack, and I thought you -"

He hesitates for a second. "I'm okay," he says, and it's only half true because he's _not_ , _God_ , he's not been since he almost had her and he lost her, but it doesn't matter now. "Are you?

Clarke just buries her face deeper in his neck, and whatever she mumbles gets lost in his ear, just a raspy breath. It might be a yes, a no, or something so akin to _I don't know_ it echoes his own confusion, the way his heart's skipped a dozen beats upon seeing her again and how mere minutes before he thought he was about to _die_.

Clarke pulls back a little, her fingers still clutching at the back of his jacket, and tears are smearing the paint on her face; there's a lump in his throat Bellamy hardly swallows. He wants to question the paint, this place, the dagger he feels at her hip and her sharp edges but her eyes are so soft - _still_. One day they'll both be ghost stories, fleeting memories of blood and tears, and nobody will remember just how truly beautiful she is - but, God, he _will_. He will, because her eyes are more grey than blue in the dim light, more worried than hard, more relieved than broken, almost ethereal. They call her _Wanheda_ but he knows how her eyes and her words and her hands can heal, how she gives more than she receives, how she was ready to die for him.

"Clarke -" he starts, but the frown on her face makes him stop. She lifts a hand to his face, touches her fingers lightly to the long cut at his temple that makes his head throb. "What happened to you?" she asks, concerned. "Who did this to you? Did _they_ do it?"

He shrugs. It hurts like hell, but the pain is making him dizzy, and maybe this is all a dream because they're at war and he's pretty sure both Trikru and Azgeda have a kill-on-sight order so why isn't he dead? He _should_ be dead. If Bellamy's honest, he didn't really expect to survive this.

Octavia said he was crazy. She said so many other things; yelled them, more like, and they probably could never take them back. Monty knew without Bellamy having to say anything - maybe he'd known all along, since that day in the woods. Kane would kill him if he ever made it back.

"I saw Lexa," he finally answers, and her fingers still just shy of his jaw. "She was alone, out in the open, and it doesn't make any sense. What's happening here?" Bellamy asks. "Clarke -"

"I've got to clean your wound," she interrupts him. "And you look like you haven't eaten properly in days. You need to rest."

She averts her gaze, focusing on his chin, and is she even listening to him? Roan told them Lexa had Clarke, and now Lexa's on the run, so what's happening here? "What I need is to bring you home," he tells her.

His hands go to her shoulders and he pushes her a little, takes a closer look at her face. She looks healthy and unharmed, nothing like the half-human, shell of a broken girl he caught a glimpse of weeks ago. How did that happen? How did she go from scarred and scared to fierce and strong again? Why didn't she come home to her people? To _him_?

She worries her lip between her teeth, and he hates being the one worrying her, but her mother thinks she'll never see her again, Octavia said she never wanted to see her again, Jasper drinks, and Raven's letting herself fall apart, and he needs them all to be whole because he doesn't know what to do. Clarke used to make the plans; Abby is making bad decisions because she's scared, and Kane's trying to do everything, and Raven and Monty are geniuses and they're losing their spark and he needs Clarke, they all need her, but he needs her more so why is she here? Why isn't she with them? Why isn't she fighting?

"I swear I'll explain everything," Clarke lets out in a whisper, frail and small and dripping with a guilt he knows all too well. "But first you have to let me take care of you. _Please_. You're bleeding."

_No, you won't_ , he wants to say, but doesn't, as she leads him to another chamber.

 

* * *

 

He's docile as she examines and cleans his wound with delicate and steady hands, his curled into fists on his lap. She's got that look in her eyes that's entirely _Clarke_ \- gentle and concerned and nurturing, nothing like the destroyer of worlds and the trail of death that follows her - and he wants nothing more than to remind her that _this_ is her, not anything else earth has made her.

She's silent and focused, and he knows what she's doing, delaying the inevitable conversation she doesn't want to have, and for a while Bellamy lets her. Clarke takes far longer than he knows she needs to clean his face, her fingers extra gentle as they probe, and in the silence of the night he can hear the irregularity in her breathing, the shaky intakes, the slow exhales to try and brace herself. Sometimes he forgets that she's barely eighteen, and no amount of black paint or blood under her nails changes that; she shouldn't have to fight herself so much.

"You won't need stitches," Clarke breaks the silence. "But you'll have to keep that clean."

"Lucky I have you to do that, then," he says, flat, and regrets it immediately. Clarke's head falls a little to the side, in that way he's come to know means defeat and fear, and he doesn't want to be angry and upset and disappointed but he _is_. "I'm sorry, Clarke."

She shakes her head. "No, that was fair," she sighs, and her hand falls from his face but he catches it, holds it, because he's not letting her slip away from him again.

He tugs a little, and she comes to sit beside him, her hand still folded in his, her head down and her eyes focused on her lap; no princess, no commander, just a girl who's seen too much blood and whose soul is stained forever, tragedy dripping from her bones. She tries to speak but just sucks in a breath, and Bellamy hears it in the air, in the minute space between them; the agony, the guilt, all the pretenses. She will tell him she can't go with him, that she's protecting them, that he has to trust her and God, he _does_ , even when he believes she's wrong, even when he wants to hate her for leaving him, for alienating herself from everything they stood together for.

"Is everyone okay?" she asks when she manages to find her voice. Of course she does.

"Lincoln was injured," he replies just as quietly. "But Jackson's optimistic. Miller's dad was shot, the bullet just grazed his arm. Roan saved Monroe's life. But you already knew, don't you?" Bellamy says more than asks. "Indra must have told you."

Clarke flinches as if he'd called her _Heda_ , and that's how he knows it's true. It explains why Lexa is running; what Roan told them had happened when she had him imprisoned and how he got free. Why he was brought here alive and not killed. It doesn't make any sense, but down here nothing ever does; and if Grounders believe that killing someone gives you their power and strength, if they can believe an eighteen year-old girl could command death, what else could they do when proven that their own leader couldn't fight her? That she _loved_ her?

Who else other than Clarke could command them? He inspires their people but _she_ inspires him.

She lets go of his hand as she stands, her back to him as she walks to the mirror on the opposite wall. Her shoulders are slouched, her gaze hollow as she stares at her own reflection. "You have to believe I never wanted any of this," she all but pleads, quiet like a fight, and of course he knows. All she's ever wanted was to keep their people safe, and he remembers trying to keep her out of his mess, his darkness, out of the grasp of the demons wrestling inside of his head. He remembers the pit, the cliff, and the storm; holding onto her for dear life, trying to save Charlotte, Lincoln's blood on his hands transferring to hers. How she refused to let him do this alone, when he so wanted to keep her out of it.

Of course she never wanted any of this.

Of course Earth is hell-bent on making her carry the weight of the world.

" _Clarke_ ," he speaks her name with the reverence Octavia resents him for, but that comes naturally to him when his mind wanders to her. There have been days when the mere thought of her brought nothing but anger and rage; on nights when Jasper drank so much he started crying Maya's name in his sleep, when he first noticed the wince on Raven's face when she moved. But they've gone to war together, literally at war with the rest of the world for each other, and his feelings for her right now or for the past months don't change the way he'll _always_ feel, deep down. It might defy logic and reason, because, really, they've spent more time apart than side by side, but it's the way it feels it _should_ be, living in ruins but still on each other's team. "I know. Just tell me what I can do and I will."

Clarke huffs a shaky breath, and leans her forehead against the smooth glass of the mirror. "You need to go. You need to stop trying to get me back."

"You know I can't do that," Bellamy says, and it's a truth that no longer surprises him but that still seems to overwhelm her. The lengths he's willing to go for her; _why_ , when she looks and acts like she doesn't deserve anything but resentment and anger.

"Azgeda marched on you. Nia's ready to kill her own son for not bringing me to her. Do you even realize how dangerous it is for you to be seen anywhere near Polis?" Clarke asks, her voice small and shaky. "You're lucky you're alive. If I hadn't told them to -"

"You think I care about that?!" he can't help interrupting her, and this time is voice isn't low and calm as he stands, his fists balled up at his sides. He's not angry with her, but he's angry _at_ her, at this version of Clarke who's trying to sound emotionless when her emotions, her heart, have always been her biggest strength. "I'm not going to stand here and let you sacrifice yourself like it doesn't matter what happens to you!"

"Does it?" she echoes weakly, not taking his bait, not reciprocating his anger with her own fire. Does she even have any left, he wonders. "You don't understand, Bellamy. I know you're trying, but it's probably best if you don't."

"Why?" he asks, and takes a step towards her. Just one. She's still turning her back to him but he knows she can see him in the mirror getting closer. "You think you have to do this alone? That it's okay if you lose yourself as long as nobody else does? That's bullshit and you know it." He sees her bite into her lip, and Bellamy knows that if he lets her argue with him, she'll do everything she can to persuade him that this is the only way, that he has to let go of her, of _them_ , and he can't let her. "Did Indra tell you that Jasper's been drinking? He can't face the day if he doesn't. He almost got himself killed because he doesn't think it matters if he lives or not anymore."

"Bellamy..."

"Monty's dad is dead. Ice Nation. And still he keeps getting up every day and doing his best, even when his best friend won't talk to him."

"Bellamy, just - stop, okay?" she pleads, her hand shooting up against the wall for steadiness. "I know what I've done. I _know_. I know how you feel."

At her words he keeps crossing the distance between them, until he's standing right behind her; close enough to feel her warmth, see her fingers trembling, and catch her if she falls. "No, you don't," he says softly. "I'm just saying, we all lost something in the war, and hiding isn't going to change that. Leaving isn't gonna help. We have to face it. _Together_."

Clarke looks up at the familiar promise, and their eyes lock in the mirror. He almost expects her to inch away from him, to dismiss him like she did the guards, _her_ guards, but she doesn't. She slowly turns instead, and there are tears in her eyes she's stubbornly refusing to let fall.

Bellamy's instinct kicks in then. He's got one arm wrapping around her shoulders and tugging her to him as his free hand goes to the nape of her neck, rubbing a soothing thumb there as Clarke starts shuddering, restrained sobs finally coming out. She clutches at his front, falling apart in a way she's never really allowed herself to - in a way that's familiar and scary, because Bellamy knows what it's like and maybe someday he'll tell her and they'll learn how to fight their demons together.

"We never stopped looking for you," he tells her as she cries, her tears soaking through his shirt. "You've got to know that. Even when I thought you were dead. I had to find you."

She mumbles something in his chest, something that sounds like defeat and it carves a scar right into his heart, how weak she sounds, how desperate; he's never seen her as anything but strong and beautiful but she's breaking down and he's the one who told her it wasn't easy being in charge and he wishes he'd done more to make sure she never had to know just how hard it is.

"I have to stay," she says a little louder, her cheek still resting against him. "If I leave -"

"Indra can lead," he interrupts her, because, really, there is no reason why it _always_ has to be Clarke. "You're not Trikru. You don't have to - we'll find a way. Okay, Clarke? You hear me?" he asks, gentle, as his hand cups her face and tilts it up to make her look at him. "We'll find a way. I'm not leaving without you."

Her eyes are still welling with tears, paint smeared down to her chin, but Bellamy knows he's losing. Clarke will allow herself one night of despair; but come morning light, she'll be their heda if that's what she thinks will protect the ones she loves. He gets it; he'd do the same - he _has_. It doesn't mean he'll stop trying, that he'll ever let her go; for now though, there's nothing else he can say to make her change her mind.

Which is why the next thing he does has nothing to do with convincing her to come back to camp with him. It has nothing to do with rationality or surviving or doing the right thing. It's selfish and stupid, but he's wanted to do it since Unity Day, when the tipsy thought crossed his mind; it'd disappeared as soon as it came, because it was just a fleeting thing, but then she hugged him and he lost her and he found her again and he's always known he loves her, but it wasn't until that day he'd truly realized the depth of his feelings for her. That he _does_ love her, not in the way he loves Octavia or Raven or Monty or Miller; not in the way he liked Gina; but in a way that is just _them_. So he leans in and brushes his lips against hers, soft, gentle, sweet, for just a second, just enough to hold onto the memory.

He pulls back, expecting her to say something, anything, to plead him to leave, but Clarke follows him, her lips chasing his, so maybe it's okay to be stupid and selfish for a moment. Bellamy can taste the salt of her tears and this is a terrible idea and maybe this will go down in flames, but being with Clarke, feeling her warmth, her fire growing back, for now, is worth the pain.

His hands go to her cheeks, his thumbs wiping under her eyes, and something's not right; the paint is sticking to his fingers, and her hair, so beautiful when it falls into waves, is out of reach. "Wait, Clarke," he breathes out between two kisses. "Clarke."

"Bellamy," she speaks his name - eager, hungry, _alive_ \- as she grabs the fabric of his shirt and tiptoes to press her mouth to his.

"Wait, let me," he says, wriggling his dark fingers before her eyes, and it gets a bright, if small, smile out of her.

He leads her back to the large bed, and they reverse positions; this time she's the one sitting on the bed and while she stood before him to examine his wound, Bellamy chooses to kneel, rinsing the towel she used for him to gently dab at her face, washing the paint and the sorrow away. Clarke's pliant under his hands, her eyes closed, leaning into his touch as he lingers until the last bit of Grounder paint is gone and nothing remains but _Clarke_. His hands go to her braids then, taking the pins out, and her hair is cascading in the blonde curls he's always wanted to tangle his fingers into. "Here you are," he whispers in the dark, like a secret that's only meant for them, for this night.

Clarke opens her eyes, and their blue darkens. The pain is still there, lingering, but there's a spark that he hasn't seen in a while; sheer intensity, fire, _desire_. She surges in, her mouth hot on his, her fingers curled in his hair, and his hands fall to her knees, squeezing, parting them as he straightens, making himself taller to reach her and change the angle. He deepens the kiss and Clarke _moans_ , her fingers tightening at the nape of his neck, almost painful, and she sucks his bottom lip between her teeth, her tongue darting to soothe the bite.

She moans his name then, hot, insistent, urgent, and he's never heard her sound like that - desperate in a way that lights fires instead of extinguishing them. Her hands leave his hair and Bellamy feels her fussing with the laces at the bodice of her dress, getting impatient as she can't untie them and focus on kissing him at the same time. "Let me," he chuckles against her mouth, and Clarke huffs a little, annoyed sound, like the princess she once was when the world first fell at their feet.

Bellamy's more dexterous than she is, or more focused, though his eyes daze a little when the bodice falls open and her curves are revealed. He pushes it all the way until it's hanging at her waist, and he replaces his fingers with his mouth, leaving a trail of kisses down the valley between her breasts. Clarke tangles a hand in his hair, the other around the fur on the bed, and Bellamy seeks her fingers, entwining them with his. His eyes never leave hers as his mouth closes around her nipple, and he can see her struggle to keep hers open. He bites down gently and Clarke keens, her knees closing around his sides to hold him close, _closer_. Her brow furrows when he licks with his tongue, and she lets out a gasp when he sucks the spot just beneath her breast.

"Bellamy," she lets out, loud, when he palms at her other breast, a little rough. She squeezes his fingers and her head falls back, her chest pushing into him, and Bellamy takes her other nipple in his mouth as he trails his hand down her stomach.

He feels her shiver and her muscles ripple as his fingers near the skirt of her dress; he urges it higher and out of the way, and his fingers slip in between her thighs, finding her dripping through her underwear already. Bellamy shudders at the thought that she _wants_ , despite how much she protests or tries to convince herself she doesn't deserve anything, that feeling and needing and wanting have become so foreign to her. That she wants _him_. "God, you're so wet," he murmurs as he draws a teasing, slow circle around her clit.

Clarke lets out a shaky breath and barely manages a weak nod, her plump bottom lip trapped between her teeth. She pushes his head down and Bellamy gets the hint loud and clear; he presses a last kiss to her sternum and untangles his fingers from hers, both hands pushing down at her skirt while Clarke lifts her hips up to help him. She's bare for him save for her panties, and Bellamy looks up then, and she's a sight to see; her blonde curls falling around her face, some strands sticking to her slick forehead; her panting chest, and bouncing breasts; the rosy hue tinting her cheeks. He dips his thumbs in her hipbones and Clarke scrunches up her nose, her hips half-thrusting towards him. "Bellamy," she whines, impatient, breathless, needy, nothing like the girl who cried in his arms just moments ago - this Clarke wants and needs and will _not_ be denied.

Bellamy gladly obliges.

He sticks his thumbs beneath the hem of her panties and slides them down her legs; he kisses his way up, focusing on the ticklish inside of her knee, nipping at her thigh in a way that makes Clarke's legs open and fall back on the bed, panting, one hand going to her own hair as the other reaches for him but can't quite grasp him. Bellamy smiles against her thigh, and then he licks a tentative stripe to her folds, and she tastes tangy and sweet and he makes a sort of grunt that echoes the keening sound Clarke can't keep down. He presses his tongue more firmly and this time she does grab his hair, her nails digging into his scalp as she holds him right there, and Bellamy digs his fingers into her thigh to anchor himself as she rocks her hips against his mouth.

He tastes her with his tongue, dips it inside of her, his thumb flicking at her clit while he does, and Clarke all but groans his name, torn and hot in her mouth. Bellamy has to hold her thighs apart; she digs her heel into his shoulder as she bites down a scream, and he pushes her knees up, his mouth warm and relentless as he pushes two fingers in.

"God, you feel so -" she pants, her voice breaking in the end as he crooks his fingers in a way that makes her fist her own hair, gripping at the strands at the nape of her neck as if to anchor herself to the bed, to the here and now. "Bell -"

"Shh," he murmurs against her as he sucks at the thin skin of her thigh, his thumb pressing against her clit. "I've got you, Clarke, come on," he urges.

Something inside of her snaps at his murmur of her name, easy and wonderful as loving goes, and her back bows, arches off the bed. Bellamy feels her clench around his fingers, her thighs trembling as they try to close around him, her nails digging at his shoulder, and the shockwave reaches him; he eases her through it, his mouth barely ghosting over her skin as she rides her high.

He pulls his fingers out and she whimpers, and Bellamy rests his head on her thigh, his mouth twitching in a stupid, lovesick smile that clashes with the ruthless, cold reality outside - but the real world doesn't matter now. Clarke's fingers are gentle as they absently stroke his forehead, and her skin is warm, shivers still shaking her, and he knows how she tastes and how his name sounds in her mouth when she comes.

_Fuck the real world_.

She tugs at his hair a little and he looks up, and Clarke's managed to brace herself on one elbow, her chest still heaving out with the tremors of her climax. She stares at him, dazed, her eyes fixed on his mouth and chin - wet from her. "Come here," she murmurs, raspy and hoarse.

He climbs up her body faster than he even thought possible, and Clarke smiles up at him, giddy and careless and _free_ , and why did he think this was a bad idea? Her cheeks are pink and he brushes her hair off her face at the same time she leans up to kiss him, slow and sweet, and Bellamy feels her grin widen against his mouth as she places her hand on his chest, her fingers curling right above his pounding heart. "Clarke -"

"Can we figure it out later?" she asks, words from another lifetime, and her eyes are soft, honest, vulnerable. Her mouth's still curved into a smile though, soft, fond, and Bellamy leans his forehead to hers and kisses her, could kiss her forever, even when nothing remains but the bittersweet memory of her skin against his. "Okay," she nods, and tilts her head so his falls to the crook of her neck, and she tugs at his shirt with intent. "You're wearing too many damn clothes."

They fix that quickly; he's pulling his shirt over his head as she works on his belt, and she wraps her hand around his cock as soon as he's bare over her, his weight comforting and solid and real as she guides him to her and he pushes in. Bellamy tangles one hand in her hair and it's soft like he's always imagined; his other hand goes to her knee and holds it high on his hip, and Clarke's breath hitches a bit as she digs her nails into the dip of his spine, urging him to _move_.

Bellamy curses under his breath - he won't last long, he knows it, not when she's rolling her hips like this, chasing his mouth for a bruising kiss, her skin hot and feverish. He tries to go slow; to make it last, to savor it, the feel of Clarke's walls tightening around him, her smile against his skin as she peppers kisses down his temple or nips at his chin - it's so fucking unreal. "Are we even awake right now?" he voices in wonder, chuckling to himself as he pulls out and thrusts back in again, slow and steady.

She presses her face against his cheek, and he feels her little content sigh as she exhales a moan and reaches to grip his neck, her fingers stroking him in a gesture that's so sweet he wants to pinpoint it. _This_ is who she is; soft and strong and he came here for sanctuary and in her arms that's exactly what he found.

Clarke doesn't answer; not with words, but she seeks his hand and her fingers twine with his and she loops her other arm around his back and pulls him closer, holding him tight, and she lets him set a slower pace. Bellamy can feel her heart colliding against his chest, her breathy whimpers right in his ear; the deep little moans rising from her throat, the jolt of electricity that jumps from her body to his, and he knows she's about to come just a minute before she does. He kisses her then, long and slow and deep, and Clarke starts trembling underneath him. She rocks her hips fast and hard against him as she bites down on his lip, silently urging him as she keens, and it sends him spiraling down with her. Bellamy buries his groan in her neck, squeezing her fingers tight where their joined hands lay above her head, and her name falls of his mouth like a prayer in the dark.

He lingers above her, not ready to pull away; Clarke strokes him softly, her fingers dancing over his spine or twining in his hair, and she murmurs things he knows she'll never admit to in the morning. Her words speak of hope and fear, and when he rolls on his side and pulls her to him, her back to his chest, Clarke tugs at his arm and wraps it around her.

It feels nice. It feels safe. It feels like _home_.

 

* * *

 

 

Clarke's gone when he wakes up, the empty spot beside him still filled with her warmth. Behind the heavy curtain that separates the chamber in two, he can hear water splashing and a soft humming.

"Was it everything you've ever wanted?" a voice asks. Bellamy looks around, and here _she_ is, standing at the end of the bed, her head tilted in that inquisitive, _almost_ _human_ way.

"What - how - _how_ did you get here?" he asks, confused as he sits up and balances his legs off the bed, reaching for his pants on the floor. "What the fuck is happening here?"

A.L.I.E. only smiles at him. "Just showing you what life could be like if you help me building a new world, Bellamy," she says sweetly. At his frown, she elaborates, patient, like she's done this time and time again. "You wanted to find Clarke and be with her again. I can make it happen. _We_ can make it happen."

Bellamy shakes his head, bewildered. It doesn't make any sense; he can hear the sound of the water; smell Clarke's scent on the sheets; feel the lines she clawed on his chest when they woke in the middle of the night and she climbed on his lap and sank onto him. This _feels_ real - it _has_ to be real.

He rubs a hand over his face, and when he looks around again the chamber and Clarke's humming are gone.

A.L.I.E. still stands, waiting, her hand opened out to him in an invitation. "So, what will it be, Bellamy?"

 

* * *

 

_the end_

 

 


End file.
